Bridal Song

O come, soft rest of cares! come, Night!
       Come, naked Virtue’s only tire,
The reapèd harvest of the light
    Bound up in sheaves of sacred fire,
       Love calls to war:
             Sighs his alarms,
       Lips his swords are,
             The fields his arms.

Come, Night, and lay thy velvet hand
    On glorious Day’s outfacing face;
And all thy crownèd flames command
    For torches to our nuptial grace.
       Love calls to war:
             Sighs his alarms,
       Lips his swords are,
             The field his arms.


More Poems by George Chapman